


Dark and Deep and Dangerous

by Osprayhurricane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 18:07:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17565416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osprayhurricane/pseuds/Osprayhurricane





	Dark and Deep and Dangerous

A large hand wraps itself, possessive and warm, around Sherlock's long throat. The strong, broad fingers press into the thin pale skin of his neck, calloused resting on his pulse point. The scotsman let his eyes slide shut, praying to the God he’d lost faith in that this creature would have mercy on him. That whatever awaited him in the wood would be better than the misery he was attempting to flee.

All at once, the cacophony of the gale around the forest ceased, leaving the place eerily quiet save for the pounding of his own heart in his ears. John thought of Mycroft, settled in his chair next to the fire, purring contentedly. Not knowing that John was bargaining with his very life as he knelt on the forest floor, awaiting the judgment and sentencing of the orphic man behind him. Part of him knew he ought to feel something,  _anything_ \--remorse, guilt, sadness--but instead he felt nothing, and he knew  _that_ was worse.

“Stand,  _mortal_ ,” the man commanded, and John’s eyes popped open as he felt himself drawn up to his feet as if on puppet strings. He was suspended by his shoulders, toes barely touching the ground beneath him. It was disorienting, and he bit his tongue against the slew of complaints threatening to spill from his mouth.

“Give me your name.”

John blinked, staring straight into the creature’s soulless, white eyes. “Whit will ye use it fur?” He vaguely remembered a tale told by an elder of the village about a young man who was seduced by the forest, taken up by it merely by disclosing his name. John had lived enough of his life to know better than to discount the tales told by an old beggar. The lines of that face had seen more than enough, and could very well hold some truth.

The pale faced man cocked his head to the side, eyes unblinking as he examined John. He looked over every inch of him, and the scotsman had the distinct feeling of being dissected, bit by bit. He shivered, thinking of his nightmare, and gulped down a whimper. His feet began to ache as he stretched his toes to the ground, still trying to keep some semblance of control. It was futile, and he knew it. He tried anyway.

“Hm,” his captor mused, the sound escaping his throat on the tails of a deep exhalation. “Nothing but  _pleasure_ , I assure you,” he added with a smirk.

John was entranced by the way the man said the word  _pleasure_ , replaying it over and over in his head like a record skipping. The tips of the man’s canines extended below his top lip, peeking out with the barest hint of threat. They were  _sharp_. Perfect for biting the flesh of mortals, John reasoned.

_Like me._

Drawing up an eyebrow, John smiled back. He wasn't sure how to behave around this creature, so he considered false bravado as an option. “Fur ye? Ur fur me?” he asked, letting his feet relax as he gave up on trying to touch the ground.

Leaning towards him, the man hovered his mouth next to John's ear. The Scotsman attempted to push him away, but found his arms pinned to his sides as if clamped by vices. It was wholly unsettling, and though he longed to turn away from the creature imposing itself on him, he found himself trapped.

“ _For us both_ ,” the ethereal creature purred in John's ear. There was something about the way his voice wormed its way into John’s head. It felt as though it was untying his neurons, pulling apart the synapses and flooding his brain with nothing but the velvety, guttural whisper beckoning him forward. Every word held a million meanings as it coursed through the scotsman’s head, picking at his wounds and promising the healing he sorely needed. It tempted him to give in, to forget he ever was human in the first place. To join this man, this  _creature_ of the wood.

A knot worked its way into his throat, causing him to cough. Swallowing around it, he pulled back just enough to look at the glassy-eyed man. “A trade? Giv me yoors first?” he suggested, hating the way his gaze traveled down the angular features of the man. “An’ lit me doon, woods ye?” He looked down at his feet, eyebrows hiking up his forehead with expectation.

Confusion flooded his captor’s face, his dark eyebrows knitting together as he narrowed his eyes and slowly glanced down at John’s feet. Raising his head back up, he asked, “Why?”

“It  _hurts_.”

Another few blinks, then a wide, sharp-toothed grin broke across the man’s cheeks, a dramatic shift that startled John. “The name’s Sherlock, mortal.” His hungry eyes roved down John’s suspended form a final time, then he nodded once and stepped away, clasping his hands behind his back.

Without warning, John crumpled to the ground, his legs numb and disabled. His entire body tingled as he curled in on himself, willing the disorienting feeling to subside quickly. A wave of nausea passed through him, and he squeezed his eyes shut to stop the way the forest spun around him. Clutching his stomach with one hand, he punched the ground with the other as if he could force his body to comply through intimidation. So much for the false bravado.

Unamused, his body rebelled and deposited the contents of his stomach on the forest floor in front of him. He coughed and sputtered, eyes streaming and nose burning while snot ran down to mingle with the spittle collected on his bottom lip. Wiping with the back of his hand, he shuddered and opened his eyes to glare at his tormentor.

Sherlock was still grinning at him, crinkles fanning out from the corners of his eyes. Around him, the forest was blurred, the lines of the trees waving and blending together with the rest of the underbrush. As John blinked and looked around, the colors fragmented out like crystals, a kaleidoscope that slowly clicked into place. The temperature swung dramatically from sweltering to freezing, then back to the neutral, causing John to cycle between sweating and shivering. As the scenery rearranged itself, it changed into a dark, dirt-filled cave. Roots sprawled out from the roof of tunnel, poking every direction above their heads. The bizarre man seemed utterly pleased with himself as he gestured around the dim underground lair with outspread arms. Unimpressed, the scotsman fought back another wave of nausea with a full body shudder, cursing his companion for yanking him from place to place.

Once he felt his stomach settle, John stood, pressing the heels of his hands into the small of his back, and stretched. Several vertebrae popped as he arched, and he felt his muscles loosen after being held captive for too long by Sherlock’s magic. His companion’s countenance seemed drastically changed, as he now pranced around like a proud puppy showing off the filthy abode. At the end of the tunnel was an enlarged area decorated with dead and dying branches and flowers, illuminated by dripping yellow candles that flickered and cast long dancing shadows on the ceiling. Water dropped erratically from the ceiling, collecting in the middle of the room in a deep puddle. The entire dwelling was full of muck and dirty water. It was  _disgusting_.

“So?” Sherlock asked as he returned to peer in John’s face. “Your turn, mortal,” he reminded, tapping the end of his long, pale finger on the scotsman’s nose. A glare was all he received in return. “A  _trade_ ,” he insisted, the smile vanishing from his face.

Deep in the center of John’s mind, he registered the unspoken threat facing him as the white-eyed man in front of him narrowed his eyes, his jaw clenching, pulling his cheekbones taut. He glanced down at Sherlock’s hands and noticed his fingers twitching at his sides in annoyance. Scratching at his beard, John diverted the question. “Whit ur ye?”

Sherlock resembled a marble statue as he stood perfectly still but for the spasms in his fingers. “You know what I am. Now, your name, please. I…,” he paused, his stare somehow intensifying. “ _Desire_ it.” A pointed, pink tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, drawing it under his sharp canines slowly.

Transfixed, John opened his mouth. The creature leaned in, towering over him, until their faces were barely centimeters apart. Somehow despite the increasing fog enveloping his thoughts, John noted that Sherlock didn’t breathe. He mirrored the man, and though the burning in his lungs felt familiar and  _wrong_ , he again found himself ignoring the pain.

“ _Breathe,”_ Sherlock whispered as he wrapped his large hands around John’s shoulders, drawing their bodies close together. John felt the presence of the man’s form wrapping around his, firm but lacking any warmth. It was unsettling, and he  _wanted_ it.

 _Nae!_   _Dunna give in!_

Gasping, he replied, “Hamish!”

Sherlock paused, cocking his head to the side and nosing into John’s beard. The man felt a smile against his neck as Sherlock continued nuzzling him, clearly pleased with his admission. John returned the smile, pulling his arms around the lithe form. He dared not think about his lie, for he knew Sherlock possessed the ability to know his thoughts. Despite the war in his mind, he knew one thing was certain--he needed an escape route.

Just in case.

* * *

Time passed.

How much, John wasn’t sure. But it passed, and it continued passing. He drifted from moment to moment, often feeling as if he’d just woken up. Memories were murky, odd collections of shadows and statements.

_“Hamish, eat this.”_

_“Follow me, mortal. I must show you something.”_

_“Dance for me, my love.”_

_“Let me_ **_have_  ** _you.”_

Sometimes, John blinked and found himself strapped to a tree trunk or suspended from its branches by his feet. He would blink again and choke back a yell of surprise until the pain from the invisible ropes biting into his skin was too much. He whimpered, he moaned. Nearby, Sherlock watched, milky eyes narrowed and unblinking.

“It hurts, Sherlock!” John would finally shout, the anger at his companion’s disinterest clearing the haze from his mind. He felt as if he was breaking the surface of the water, gasping for air as the rage and pain settled in his joints.

“ _Does it?_ ” the creature asked, drawing out the words. The only part of him that moved was his mouth, the rest of him frozen.

John cursed, writhing and wriggling in an attempt to free himself. “Lit me go!” he demanded. “Lit me go, ur I’ll leave ye.”

They both knew it was a lie, but Sherlock flicked his finger anyway.

The scotsman, able to breathe fully again, shut his eyes for a moment. What was he doing here?  _How did he get here_? There was a tug in his chest and his stomach dropped out as he fought to remember what he was missing. Something was wrong, but--

John blinked and looked around him, disoriented and confused. The sunlight had gone out, the trees had disappeared, and--

“Hamish, I  _love_ how you taste,” Sherlock crooned, licking his way down the man’s nude stomach. He paused to press kisses to John’s hipbone, his long-fingered hands sweeping up and down his thighs while kneading his muscles.

They were back in Sherlock’s underground lair, laying on the collection of hay filled pillows he--no,  _they_ \--used as a bed. The lanky man was nestled between John’s thighs, his chest pressed against the scotsman’s pelvis while he continued peppering his skin with suckling kisses and sharp-toothed nips. As his nose dragged through John’s wiry hair at the base of his abdomen, Sherlock made a show of inhaling the man’s scent. As he opened his mouth to exhale, breath hot and damp, he let it hang open while he looked up through his long dark lashes.

A long whine escaped John’s lips as he stared down his chest at Sherlock, ivory skin gleaming in the flickering candlelight. “Och aye, Sherlock,” he moaned, surprised at how filled with need his own voice was. A wicked grin was the response as the man between his legs dragged his silky smooth hands down to hook under John’s knees, lifting them up onto Sherlock’s shoulders. John fought to keep himself up on his elbows-- _he needed to watch_. It was his favorite part, seeing the dark mop of curls descend upon his cock, bouncing as his lover’s head bobbed up and down his length.

 **“Lay back,**  ” Sherlock commanded, yanking hard on the backs of John’s knees. “We’re doing something...  _different_ today,” he purred. John dropped down as instructed, then brought his hands down to tangle in Sherlock’s hair.

That is, until a courageous, hot,  _wet_ tongue prodded below his testicles, seeking the tight ring of muscle between his arse cheeks.

“ ** _Fuck_**!”

His hands flew up to his face, heels digging into his eyes as the tongue licked boldly at him, teasing and tasting. Sherlock moaned as he pushed deeper, his nose tucked in beneath John’s testicles and his forehead rubbing against the base of his cock. The ministrations continued, taking John apart piece by piece until he was shouting and cursing, body writhing on the floor of the dirt filled cave while hot white streams pulsed all over his stomach and chest. It lasted  _forever_ , cresting and falling over, and  _over_ , and  ** _over_  **until the man was begging for rest.

The curls between his legs shook and two fingers joined the tongue inside him, petting his prostate and pulling even more pleasure from his wrung out body. He convulsed, his voice hoarse from moaning Sherlock’s name, and bucked his hips forward with renewed vigor. Sherlock wrapped his lips around the tip of John’s cock and let him thrust up into his mouth, fingers relentless as the man lost control yet again.

“Ah cannae...ah cannae…,” John gasped when the stars cleared from his vision. “Please,  _Sherlock_ ,” he begged, hands tugging on the man’s curls to pull him up for a salacious kiss. As their tongues tangled, the taste of his own body filling his mouth, John reached down between Sherlock’s legs. As his hand wrapped around the man’s pulsing cock, he was rewarded with a hiss, followed by a sharp bite on his earlobe. He would have yelped in pain had he not been so utterly exhausted.

“ _We’re not done yet_ ,  **mortal** ,” the creature warned, his voice husky. “  _Get on your hands and knees._ ”

* * *

Time passed.

John didn't know how much.

Most days, he found that he didn't seem to care.

But there were  _some_ mornings when he awoke, thoughts sluggish as the sleep cleared from his mind and he wiped the crust from the corners of his eyes when something seemed…  _off_. There were  _some_ mornings when he opened his eyes and saw rolling hills and the slow drift of cattle across a field.  _Some_ mornings when a small, wooden cabin was stuck at the edge of his vision and a fluffy grey tail plodded its way towards him.

The moment Sherlock opened his clouded eyes, murmuring into the crook of John's neck while shoving a leg between his thighs, though, it was gone.

Gone like the time, like his real name, and the way he arrived in this mystical land.

 _Just gone_.

 

 


End file.
